


to the truth, then

by Xirdneth



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode Fix-It: s02e13 Mizumono, M/M, Murder Family, Other, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 02:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13157754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xirdneth/pseuds/Xirdneth
Summary: Will Graham is a man that sits precariously on a thin line between worlds, so close to falling on either side, especially in the latter half of season two. What if he had fallen to Hannibal's side before it was too late, and told him the truth?





	to the truth, then

“...Hannibal.” Against the still of the fire-warmed air, Will's murmur is as powerful as a storm. Even now, knowing his dishonesty, Hannibal cannot help but appreciate the cadence of it; how he wishes he could pull it from his throat and immortalize it for his enjoying in the years to come. It will be one of the things he misses most – the way his voice resembles the ocean with its highs and its crashes, the husk of it and the growl of it, the way it quakes with fear and trembles with righteous fury. Indeed, it will be a travesty to lose the privilege to hear it, even after it has done nothing but tell him lies in its timbre.

“Yes, Will?” How his name tastes of whisky and blood, of oak and brine; it is all metal and salt, earth and dead fruit, and it is the closest thing to divinity on his tongue that he dares utter with any semblance of respect. He will have to nip that in the bud, as it were, as soon as they are parted; the temptation to utter his name in the dark of night will come, surely as the sun will rise in the morning, but he will refuse it, for it is the closest thing to madness to ever tempt him.

Will does not look at Hannibal, instead his eyes stare into the air, not hazy with thought but sharp with focus; in the firelight, he is golden and ochre, cheekbones shadowed and eyes dark. His mouth parts, the prologue to speech. Hannibal notes, with some bitterness, that after all they have shared, Will's lack of eye contact only serves as further proof of dishonesty. That, and Lounds' stench clinging to his skin, overpowering his natural scent. That obnoxious perfume…

“I didn't kill Freddie Lounds.”

There: a silence. A deafening blot of absence. Even his heart refuses to beat, breath refuses to release; he is in suspense, stagnant. It is not a truth he did not know, of course, but it is one he had never expected to hear. Not in that storm-voice, that heaven-rendering tone. In Hannibal's chest, something is building, something without name. It is not until Will raises his eyes from that objectless space and meets his own, eyes like sunlight catching on the ripples of the twilight sea, that everything surges to a crescendo, a burst; a cosmic eruption within the abyss of his chest equal to none. It is light and it is rage, and it is gratitude and it is fear.

“I'm sorry,” comes Will's addendum. He does not offer explanation, not without further prompt; he only offers his words as if it is his heart, red and raw, in his palms. Hannibal has always understood Will, the poetry of him and the vulnerability of him, but this is something newer; this is an honesty of which they have not yet achieved yet. Hannibal is not without anger. It sits in him now, and it will always live there, but the world, and the life, that he had saw taken from him has been given back to him. This is honesty, he is certain. The veil that he regarded dear Will through has been lifted after Lounds' death became clear to him as a lie, and he now sees with eyes free of delusion that Will Graham is _honest_ , if not in any other moment, then in this. Hannibal considers himself to be a man who gives what is deserved to those around him, and does Will not deserve equality after Hannibal himself insisted they were equals?

Then he shall offer honesty in return. “I know.”

It is Will's turn to still, and there is a starburst of fear in his eyes, in the hearty swallow he takes; his Adam's apple bobs thickly. It calms quick, but not entirely. “When?” A blink, his lashes brushing along the curve of his cheekbones like a brush against canvas. “How?” The roll of his lips, tongue poking out as it runs along the plump lower tier before retreating. Every movement hypnotic.

At the very recollection of how he came to know of Will's betrayal, Hannibal's lips snarled ever-so-minutely at the corners, the memory of Lounds' vile perfume a bold taste on his tongue. “I could smell her on you.”

Will nods, as small a movement as Hannibal's snarl, as if he understands. Of course he does. They're the same. “I went to see her.”

“Who knew?” It embitters him, to think of how Jack, even _Freddie Lounds_ , was privy to his foolishness. What a grand humiliation, all while he had been none the wiser.

Something in Will's eyes; a pain, perhaps? His empathy come into play. “Jack Crawford. Freddie Lounds. Eventually… Alana.” Ah. How interesting.

“Alana,” he echoes, voice devoid of emotion bar the slightest peak of curiousity.

“I kept it from her as long as I could. She needed to know.” He can all but see her, her desperate, searching eyes, the tremble of the unknowing; indeed, she was in their world, but she was not involved. A playpiece, yet not a player. It is only natural that she sensed the dynamics were off – he could feel her suspicion grow by the day. He smelt gunpowder on her, gunpowder and fear. “I didn't tell her everything,” Will adds, voice lower than it had been. “Not even Jack knew everything.”

That should not be so important to him, so important that it lights something in him. Something remains sacred between them.

“What did you keep from him?” Hunger, now. _Let me hear you say it without saying it: you wanted us all to yourself. You craved this as much as I, and you wanted to share it only with me._ Of course, that attitude would soon change once he learned of Abigail's existence, but he would have no problem welcoming her into the dynamic; indeed, she had never left. From the very beginning, they were destined to be family. As the blood of the Hobbs' stained their skin, they became chosen; as they shared the secret of Boyle, they became bound; now, they would become family.

“...Our meals. Our conversations. I only told him what would pertain to the investigation.”

“You kept it impersonal.”

“He didn't have to know.”

“No, he didn't,” Hannibal agrees, and sees an opening. “He still doesn't.”

Will lets out a sound that would be a laugh, had it any mirth in its breathy sound. “Doesn't he?”

Hannibal tilts his head. “You want to go through with the dinner. Why? It could be bloodless.”

“I… I don't know how to explain it. I need to… I need...” His fingers curl and uncurl uselessly as he fumbles for his words.

“Do you believe I demand an offering?” Hannibal says, as if he has wandered into the wondrous, grim realm of Will's mind and plucked his thoughts like flowers. Has the fact Freddie Lounds' heart remains active forced Will to consider another sacrifice? An apology written on the red flesh of Jack Crawford's mutilated heart? How poetic, yet unnecessary. He asks for one heart, and one heart alone. He appreciates the sentiment regardless. “I require no such thing of you. I have only wanted you to see what I see. That we are the same, Will, and what darkness dwells within your mind is not a horror to endure alone, but a wonder to explore with another. With me. Do you understand?”

Will falls into thoughtful quietude, the dip of his brow showing how his brain struggles to communicate it. No doubt his moral self fights to find some shred of dishonesty, some sign of trickery, in his words (which, truth be told, is a little hypocritical, but he keeps that silent), while the self that has found true companionship within their time together _longs_ to give in, and of course, that intriguing little aspect that _demands_ retribution, even for his own perceived sin. What a fascinating trait. Hannibal can only coax him with his eyes. After what seems an eternity condensed—Hannibal can only wonder what the time's passage must have felt to _Will_ , trapped in the nightmarish labyrinth of his own psyche—Will's face softens with acceptance and he nods. “We go tonight.”

“Tonight. Would you accompany me to my home directly?”

“You don't trust me?” Will asks with the wiry crook of his mouth, but Hannibal wonders if he cannot detect a true hint of worry there.

“I have something I wish for you to see. And,” he adds, “it's best we finish up business at my home first; we have plans there, later, if you'll recall. I do regret standing Jack up, but it is a lesser evil.”

Will's mouth quirks at that, a nugget of true amusement hidden within the cove of his mouth, no doubt. It is that dark humour that Hannibal has always seen in him; it is yet another likeness they share. At last, Hannibal can foresee future dinner parties in which there will be _someone—_ two someones, but Abigail's taste for humour has greatly thinned with her growing anxiety, expecting Will and her union, no doubt—who understands the depths of his humour, whose laughter will actually _mean_ something, for he understands every layer of it. Certainly, they will be even more fun.

“Alright.”

 

* * *

 

The drive is quiet, yet not uncomfortable. There is a shift in tension; not a lack of it, but a tonal change. There has always been the heavy anvil of tension, no doubt because of Will's subterfuge, but also his morality fighting against his growing Becoming, and how his radiance and beautiful empathy combat one another in the arena of his mind. Now, the tension is equivalent to the ascension before the plunge, the steady _click click click_ of a rollercoaster; it is adrenaline disguised as timidness. In an hour, Will's life—and now Hannibal's own—will change indefinitely. Hannibal glances at Will, and catches him staring back.

 

* * *

 

She is waiting for them, as she has been instructed to do. Abigail Hobbs stands in the kitchen, hair tied up and mouth twitching with the tremor of a smile, and this is it, the moment where everything comes together. Everything about Will has shifted, the tension has come to a climax as his expression melts into one of devastating disbelief. Then, the light of hope rises, pushing his mouth to speak, his eyes to light up. “Abigail?” Barely a sound, but it might as well shake the foundation of the house.

She nods, lips rolling in before she smiles wider, eyes wet; it is not a smile that stretches her entire face, but one that reveals the dimples in her cheeks. Will takes a hesitant step forward.

“We've been waiting for you,” Hannibal says, quiet so as to not disturb the intimacy.

“Merry Christmas,” Abigail finds the ability to speak, her voice raw with emotion despite the attempt at humour. Will laughs, a half-huff of a sound, and his is just as raw; he seems to be fighting himself—for when is he not—on whether to reach out and touch Abigail, or to turn to face Hannibal. Abigail and Will truly share an intriguing dynamic, no doubt hindered by Will's instability during his encephalitis-ridden days, a magnetism towards each other and yet they circle one another, hesitant to make the first move. Hannibal steps to them, and takes Abigail's hand in one of his own, as his other settles on the small of Will's back.

As Will stills, Hannibal speaks. “I don't wish to disturb the moment, but I believe we have some business to attend to, and a plane to catch.”

Will inhales, as unstable as his twitching fingers. “I believe we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> ahh i hope you enjoyed this! it was supposed to be a little longer, with a little more festiveness, but i felt that would take away some of the emotion of the fic, so some other day! if you liked this fic, comments and kudos are always appreciated! i love you all so much, and may you all have a happy new year!
> 
> tumblr: @margotverger


End file.
